Imperfections: Jack and Robert
by DashaMTE
Summary: Crossover with the Sentinel Imperfections stories


Cascade, Washington spring 1996 (a few days after Imperfections VII)

When John arrived, Jack was too busy arguing with Marcia to hear.

The bed was too soft to exercise on, so he had carefully eased onto the broad, low massage table he'd bought years ago for PT and started with the basic upper body set using his small five pound weights.

Fifteen minutes had left him soaked in sweat and panting. Despite his protests, Marcia had taken the weights away and begun to help him with stretches, trying to salvage the muscle tone and flexibility he still had in his legs. She was too timid, though, as she had been all the last week. She wouldn't push him far enough, and she took 'slow and careful' past any normal boundary.

"I can go further than that," he said, trying not to growl with his impatience. "Lean into it."

Marcia looked at him over the ankle she was grasping and said, "No."

"Damn it, listen to me--"

"This is enough," she said. "I'm the sentinel, and I'm not going to hurt you."

"Then go away and I'll do it myself."

"No," she said.

Jack took a breath to yell and lost what was left of his dignity as the congestion in his lungs shifted and he began coughing. Flat on his back, his stomach had no support at all, and the coughing fit that ensued was just a series of useless jerks that accomplished nothing. The stitches had been out of his neck for less than a week. When he flailed, trying to turn himself, the skin and muscle pulled painfully. He couldn't cough, he couldn't move.

No strength. No leverage. No air.

Marcia pulled his arm out of the way and rocked Jack onto his side, almost rolling him off the table but for the sudden arrival of a second pair of bracing hands.

John, Jack realized, showing up when Jack was sweaty, helpless and disgustingly sick. But he forgot his embarrassment as John shoved a small, hard pillow against his belly, and the congestion finally moved high enough to be swallowed. Jack gasped shallowly, trying to get some air without choking himself again.

Marcia shoved an extra pillow under Jack's head and pulled a short blanket around him. "Enough," she said. "We'll start again later."

"No, I'm all right." Forced out between ragged pants, the words didn't sound very convincing.

She froze, staring at him with flinty eyes. "What you don't understand--what neither of you understand--is that you are blind and deaf and easily as fragile as any one of us." She leaned down so that her eyes were on a level with his. "You go on and on about attachment and trust. How the hell is that supposed to work if it isn't mutual? How can you as me to believe you know what is best for me when you don't know what's best for you? And trust? That goes both ways." She was as pissed off as Jack had ever seen her. For all her usual grumpiness and acid tongue, her anger was seldom out of her control. She said mean things because she meant to, but deep down she hardly ever got worked up. This furious women, Jack didn't know her. She slammed her hand down on the padded table and spun away. "He's all yours," she snapped at John.

Into the stunned and embarrassed silence, John asked casually, "How about a shower?"

John spotted Jack as he transferred first to the chair and then to the shower stool. He collected the sweats Jack handed him and adjusted the water before slipping away. The meds Jack had taken that morning were finally kicking in, and added to the hot water and steam, began to loosen the mess in his chest. Though he was conscious of John waiting just outside the door, he didn't dare try to stifle the endless cough. He leaned forward, arms wrapped around his middle, wishing he had the strength he'd had before the shooting.

When he turned off the water, John reappeared with a towel and a clean set of sweats. He offered to help, but Jack sent him away, promising that he would be fine. He dressed slowly, the bathroom door open to vent steam.

He heard John knock softly at Marcia's door. To his surprise, she opened it at once. And apologized.

"You've got reason to be upset," John answered, his voice at the edge of Jack's hearing. "I wish you'd remember that you're not the only one."

Her response--if any--was too quiet to hear.

"What has the doctor said?" John asked.

"That we can't expect too much. He's not getting enough activity, and that's going to have consequences. And his lungs--he went several rounds with pneumonia a few years back. There's some scarring. The only reason he's avoided a massive infection this time is, well, me. But I'm not good at medical evaluations. Clearly not good enough."

"You don't have to protect him all by yourself."

"I'm...starting to be very grateful for that."

Jack pressed his hand to his mouth. Was this what it took for her to let people in? Would she reach out for Jack, when she never reached out for herself? Could they possibly come out of this with some kind of practical advantage?

"You're going to have to change doctors. Sooner rather than later," John said. Jack could hear them start down the hall toward the kitchen. He wouldn't be able to follow the conversation for much longer without coming out and joining it.

"What? No, he'd never go along with that. And he doesn't listen to me, you saw that--"

"He's not being treated aggressively enough. And if your doctor's attitude is, 'gee, he's disabled and fragile and only has a few more years anyway, what a shame,' then you need another doctor. Now." Yes. John would know, wouldn't he, about dealing with doctors who just sighed and shook their heads.

"Shit," she said. "John--I don't know--I mean, if there are good doctors out there, how do you find them?"

"Ah. That's where knowing guides comes in handy. It turns out that is a sizable chunk of my job, vetting doctors and then fighting with them for every scrap of help."

Jack lost them, then. He spent a few minutes carefully combing his hair and then made his way slowly to the kitchen. John was spreading peanut butter on wheat toast while Marcia poured boiling water into the French press. Anonymous Source was at his bowel, slopping his food all over the floor. "How was the inspection trip? Florida, wasn't it?" Jack asked, trying to sound normal.

"Florida," he agreed. "I really hate Florida, but it was fine. Same old, same old. Rodney never gets tired of metal fatigue and vibration."

"Where is he?"

"He went to his office to work on the report."

"Is he all right by himself?"

John's smile turned sad and strange. "Never. But I can't hover over him every minute. And that's not what he needs."

Jack took the coffee Marcia held out. "Right. Of course." Jack didn't want to think about the burden he was adding to Rodney and John's lives. No. He couldn't think about it. "Is today Friday or Saturday?"

"Saturday," Marcia said. She nudged the plate of peanut butter and toast closer, and Jack took the hint and ate some of his breakfast.

"The Farmer's Market is open, John. Why don't you take Marcia and go shopping. I know how picky Rodney is about vegetables, and I'd like some fresh bread. You won't need to babysit me. I'm just going to sleep after breakfast."

They protested, of course. But Marcia really needed a break. From this house. From him. She was in good hands with John. And if Rodney was busy cooking when he came back from the college later, that would be good. Keep people busy and involved. And--no, the alternative was John Sheppard spending the morning watching Jack sleep. That was just unthinkable.

They left finally, after Jack was tucked onto the Lazy-Boy in the living room. They'd given him a glass of mint tea, the portable phone, the TV remote, two blankets, and a box of tissues. Marcia had stacked his research neatly just out of reach on the coffee table. A very unsubtle hint that he was supposed to nap. They'd left the chair, though, close to hand. He wasn't trapped. The sound of the door closing--

Was a relief. He was so tired of being watched.

Was terrifying. He couldn't move quickly. He couldn't cough worth a damn. And now he was alone.

He sat for a long time staring at tiny crack in the plaster up by the ceiling. The perils of owning an older house, even though, as far as toxics went, they tended to be safer. Patching with real plaster would be all right, but Marcia could never tolerate a fresh coat of paint...

He woke too warm and hoped it was only a matter of someone setting the thermostat too high or too many blankets. If he was getting a fever--what was the point of having three sentinels fussing over him if they couldn't head off infection.

He rubbed his eyes and put on his glasses--

There was an old man sitting on the sofa.

It had to be the meds. There was no way Jack had lost his touch so completely that someone--even a former agent--could just come in and make himself at home. He said, "I assume you'll write out a report on my security system before you leave," which was better than saying the other thing he was thinking, which was, _My god, Robert, you've gotten so old._ The hair was fine and snow white. It had been thick and iron grey when Jack and Robert had been partners. The broad shoulders had shrunken some. The wrinkles--his eyes, his neck, his hands--would kindly be called grandfatherly.

His eyes had changed most of all. They were still sharp and alert...but they weren't hard any more.

"You need to plant something with thorns under the kitchen window." Robert stood up and crossed the distance between them. "Old Son," he said sadly, looking down at Jack, "What have you done this time?"

"I'm sure you know all about it," Jack said sourly. Look, another sentinel to fuss over him.

"I am not as well connected as I used to be. It took me this long to find out. Perhaps we ought to discuss the meaning of 'retired?' Hm?" He held out his hand. Jack was surprised, but he didn't hesitate. The only concession Robert had ever made toward physical affection was the formalized palm to palm contact of British guide custom.

Robert's hand was warm and strong, but not as large as it had been.

"Look who is talking," Jack said. "You spent the first five years of your retirement on a grand, hopeless quest for justice."

"It was a series of grand quests for justice, and most of them weren't hopeless."

_Oh_. Jack thought. _I'm glad._ But he couldn't find the words to say that out loud.

"Setting yourself up as a target is a time-honored technique." Robert inclined his head, drew the words out, lectured. "But usually it works best if you have arranged for back-up to spring the trap. And, personally, I would have worn protective gear."

Robert could be a real bastard when he tried. Jack had nearly forgotten. "I admit I screwed it up. I...wasn't expecting...what I should have been expecting."

"Is it finished?" Robert asked softly. He was, Jack realized with a cold hurt in his heart, offering to finish it if there were any dangerous loose ends left.

"It's finished."

Robert nodded. He snared a stool from under the coffee table and sat down beside the Lazy-Boy, still holding Jack's hand. "You're well cared for," he said, meaning, Jack supposed, that he smelled clean and fed and medicated.

It was a reminder that made Jack's pain and coldness grow. "I'm so sorry, Robert," he breathed.

"For what? For dragging my ancient carcass out here to check on you? It's not like my schedule is all that full these days. I really did retire, finally."

"I didn't give you anything. I worked with you for nearly three years, and I gave you...nothing. You deserved better."

Robert's eyes strayed to the coffee table, where Marcia had stacked Jack's research: pages of crosstabs and chi squaires and standard deviation. "You gave me what I asked for; someone I could trust to watch my back absolutely. Do you really think I could have taken you to Bulgaria or Argentina if you'd loved me? We did our job. We did...a good job."

Jack took a deep breath, found he needed another. "I did love you," he said.

That earned him a tiny, wry smile. "You were one up on me, then." He glanced away. "Old Son, it wasn't you."

"You couldn't let your guard down around a guide. Not _really_." Robert had trusted him, in a way. But he had never let Jack in. Even if Jack had tried to guide him properly, Robert would have refused.

"No... Well. Only that once."

Jack thought of Jim Ellison and swallowed hard. "Robert. I have to ask. If he. If you were hurt." He took a deep breath. "Did he hurt you?"

That earned him a brief, confused look. "Did he--? Ah. You're asking if Control abused me. No. Never. The opposite problem. He was...dearer to me than my own life, than my loyalty, then my country. That was what I couldn't risk again. Giving someone that kind of power over me."

Jack let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He shouldn't have worried. Robert had never acted like an abuse victim. His health, his control, his focus had always been exemplary. But the thought that what had happened to Jim might have happened to one of Jack's own partners and Jack not _notice_. He could never have forgiven himself for that.

Robert nodded at the research on the coffee table. "I've heard you're causing quite the hue and cry in some circles. Very controversial."

Jack sighed. "Good."

"Are you right?"

Jack glanced at the pile. His latest sample--and his latest set of questions--had produced a batch of data the implications of which not only supported Jack's previous conclusions but also brought up several new issues that would be almost as controversial. "Well," he said. "Not with regard to you, apparently--"

"Please. I know the meaning of 'bell curve' and I have _always_ been an outlier on it. For most of us--are you right?"

"Yes, Robert. I'm right. But you have to have guessed it probably won't be enough. The environment is becoming more poisonous. More and more sentinels live in cities. American life expectancy is going up, but for sentinels, it's going down."

Robert let go of his hand and produced a picture from the breast pocket of his sports coat. He laid the picture in Jack's lap. "I have a grandson. He is eleven months this Tuesday."

Jack looked down at a generic baby in a green bunny suit. Robert's grandson. "He's beautiful."

"He can't sleep without two white noise generators going because any noise--anywhere in the house--wakes him up at once."

"How much training do his parents have?"

"My daughter-in-law--delightful woman, she never lets me get away with anything--is enrolled in classes at NYU."

"And Scott?"

"Is angry at me for passing along my affliction to his innocent son."

"If he inherits your health it won't be a plague."

Gently, he retrieved the picture. "My own father had to be institutionalized three times for breakdowns. He couldn't cope with the continual clamor."

Jack nodded. He didn't need to say that he understood. He'd practiced as a guide for a fifteen years and supervised guides for two more before he'd started interviewing sentinels about how difficult their lives were.

"I don't know any great secrets about sentinels," he said. "I teach guides."

"I didn't come for your research, Jack." Slowly, deliberately, he retook Jack's hand, twining their fingers together. "The more I learned about your situation, the more concerned I became."

"I'm going to be fine," Jack said, trying to believe it because it was much harder to lie to Robert than to Marcia. "Give me a few weeks."

He nodded. "This time. As difficult and dangerous as this has been, I do expect you will make a good recovery. It is the potential for _next_ time that has me concerned."

Jack stiffened. "Next time?"

"You had no history with Normal Oliver. You had no history with Samuel Holland. You had no previous history--or even contact--with Ben Chavez. And yet, suddenly, you step into the middle of a drug war."

Jack laughed. "You think I've lost my mind."

Robert frowned. "Our line of work...had the potential for certain long-term--" Robert stumbled. Jack didn't remember him ever being at a loss for words before. "I know the sort of burdens you are carrying."

Oh. Robert thought he was having some kind of guilt-induced breakdown. And yes, okay, that wasn't unreasonable. Jack had had several of those. But his research was his penance. "Not them. Ellison," he said.

Robert blinked. "The police detective." He grew very still. "A friend of yours--? Or something closer? Jack?"

Jack laughed again. "No," he said. Not his lover. It wasn't like that. "I'm supervising his guide. Ellison...have you heard what Lee Bracket has been up to? No? It got some local news coverage. More of the details of the criminal charges against Bracket are in the newsletter. Either AAA or AG."

"I hadn't seen. I don't get the guide newsletters... I used to read Mickey's, sometimes."

"File cabinet in the den. Take last December's. Or March. It will turn your stomach."

"And Brackett was involved with Oliver? I think I met him once, nasty piece of work, am I right?"

Jack shook his head, overwhelmed, suddenly, at how complicated it all was. "Because of Brackett, I met Jim. And Jim is--oh. You may be right. I may _be_ looking to do penance. If I am...it's Jim Ellison."

"Jack," Robert said gently, "I don't understand."

"I have to live long enough for Blair Sandburg to get his permanent credentials. Jim would be in good hands then, and safe. If I can do that, I will have done a very good thing."

"I see. And Ellison was getting in Oliver's way."

Jack nodded. "Yes. And if you came here to find out why I was reckless...and careless...and stupid. That's why."

"Not making a habit of it, then?"

"No." Picturing himself playing cloak and dagger games, Jack laughed. It made him cough a little.

"Can I get you anything," Robert said.

"No, I'm fine," Jack said automatically.

"You will be," Robert said, gently brushing his fingers over Jack's hair. "I should let you rest."

Involuntarily, Jack gripped Robert's hand more tightly. It was more recklessness. If Robert was still here when John and Marcia returned, there would be awkward questions. Worse, Marcia had gotten very flexible about having Jim and Rodney hanging around and pawing over him, but Robert McCall was just the sort of sentinel who would bring out the worst of the paranoia all those years of working for the company had cultivated.

"You'll see me again. I'll come back in a few weeks. All right? I'll take you to lunch."

Jack nodded. He waited, eyes closed, for the sounds of Robert leaving, but of course he heard nothing. Marcia had been right about how clouded and dampened the world was to people with normal senses.

When, about twenty minutes later, Marcia came storming in, nostrils flaring, unsure what was wrong with her world, Jack shushed her gently. A friend had stopped by, that was all. Everything was fine.

Everything was fine.

End


End file.
